Acluofobia by A. R. Deleanu. It is maybe because, after his first book, Imblanzitorul Apelor, I was expecting so much, that this one didn’t charm me as much. Or maybe because I’m not a big horror fan, and can’t read through the lines and understand this kind of literature as well as avid fans. Or maybe because I was paying so much attention to his style, his writing, his rhythm – which I still like – that I did not get as caught in it. Or maybe, it wasn’t me who didn’t understand much, but it was the plot itself, the making of the stories too obscure, just like very polished parts of a bigger picture, like the very clean, beautifully painted foot of a whole sculpture. I can’t tell, really – I can only tell that it wasn’t as good as I expected it to be, and that most of the stories, while being pretty well written, felt like unfinished, and the female characters, superficial. The ones I liked most were “Trenul umbrelor”, because of its visual picture it paints, “Toma. Administrator”, because of its cyclical structure, “Omul cu chip de cal” because it makes half-sense in a beautiful way and, well, maybe even “Jos, in lumea lor”, although it seems to me too … unexplained. Maybe even “Negru ca o soapta fara rost”, which is a bit too brusque.
I’ve been with my head up in A Dance of Dragons by Geroge R. R. Martin for weeks now. I finished it some days ago, but I loved it. It’s probably my favourite book in the series. It started a bit slow, but it got from interesting to more interesting to exciting to oh-my-god to finally please don’t do this to me George Martin. I think the way he can keep up with his characters complexity is amazing, although I sometimes wish they were even more reflexive, especially the ones prone to being so. Well, it’s like an adventure really. Not for the lighthearted.
day after day, my head full of Game of thrones characters - what will Jon do, what will Arya do, what will Dany do, why is Tyron becoming so mean, why can’t Jaime be nicer, what do I even care about that psycho Cersei - so until the book came from the library, I read some Sci-Fi short stories that still dwell in my mind - a story about a boat having consciousness, and people living just with “consciousness” and downloading themselves into bodies and another story about an Indian dancer who falls in love with an AI, and how it goes and how it ends. I must say that I don’t remember the writers, and I wasn’t very impressed with them when I read them, but now, when I keep thinking about them, they do that thing - staying in my mind, asking questions. So they’re good stories, after all.
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Learning by the sun is hard, makes the book’s pages glow and whisper “read me” - A feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin was such an annoying disappointment, in a good way (if there is such way). I read it being quite angry at the author. It’s so … unnecessary long, I think. I really didn’t want to know that many details about some characters. I even thought, “well, that’s it, I ain’t gonna read another one”, but it’s like a soap opera. It stays in your head. I keep wondering what’s x. doing, what’s y doing? I know it’s quite futile since George R. R. Martin almost NEVER answers these questions in a happy way. But still, I’m probably going to read the next one.
sometime ago I happily went to the city and borrowed these three bulky books from the library: one, on Romanian magical folk creatures, one an anthology of sci-fi with short stories and one, which I’m reading now, A feast for crows by George R. R. Martin
A reference to the story “The Five orange pips” from the collection The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. It was quite a delightful read, not just for the interesting story and writing, but also for the overall atmosphere of that time, of having breakfast or coffee on Baker Street, finding out Sherlock did cocaine and snuff (tobacco), and did not like to be introduced with “Dr.” for dislike of being affiliated with any institution.
To excuse myself for not reading Dacii, by Hadrian Daicoviciu, I’ve been devouring two other books: Lying on the couch, by Irvin D. Yalom and The Suicide Shop, by Jean Teule. The first one I enjoyed enormously: it’s fun and very smart, it makes you laugh, feel, think. The intricate lives of psychanalists and the rich people surrounding them apparently make really good stories. The suicide shop I read for different reasons - it was, well, funny, but I’m not sure if funny enough. It didn’t vibrate with me much.
The bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak. For a while this writer has caught my attention, and I had this one on my shelves for a while, but I only got around reading it this last week. I was a good book. I liked it from the title, I didn’t like it from the first chapters, and then I fell in love with it gradually. It’s a good story, it has strong characters, strong voices, and I think it tells things that need to be told. The interactions and relationships between Armanoush and Asya, their mothers, their families are beautifully written and true. So I’m thankful.